


Colouring Outside the Lines

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Medical Student John Watson, Mobile Careers, Sherlock is ... I have no idea ... impaired for starters, Substance Abuse, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-10-07 09:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes cross paths, three separate times, before things finally connect.The impressions, however, that each left on the other, very remarkable indeed.





	1. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting. Only one of them initially is particularly cognisant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of being under the influence, of drug overdose, of altered sensorium. Proceed with caution if these descriptions might bother you.

Floating.

Haze.

The burn of the needle, fading to lovely, hazy, misty grey. He pulled the needle out, presence of mind enough to activate the needle-guard, and let it fall from his hand, the tourniquet, released, the boredom already dissipating in the opioid-drift, his mind quieted and his limbs lightly resting, hovering over the ground, wafting in the air. His blink was slow, the lateral nystagmus of his eyes, choppy visioned windows, a dingy ceiling, dirt everywhere, but his now-subdued mind doesn't care. The den, an out of the way abandoned house, the residents quiet and minding their own business, seemed to roll with the non-existent ocean waves, the room lapping softly, rocking gently, the rise and swell of the tide within his altered imagination. Breathe in, breathe out slower. There is blissful disconnection, mind quieted, more floating.

Nodding out. Nodding out _hard._ No in-between just enough and perhaps it was too much. It just was. Part of the high. Blessed, solitary, mind-numbing peace.

Skin detached, the warm tingling, the sensation mildly fuzzy, brain calming. Perhaps too much.

The waves settle and calm, his heart rate slower, everything slowing down. He lay on the floor, uncaring, as the watery perceptions come to a complete stop.

Breathe in.

Hypoventilation progressed to agonal breathing, and then periods of almost apnea.

Breathe out.

Brea ...

 ++

Darkness.

Floating in the darkness.

Eyelids, the faintest light coming through, red, dots, movement, a blizzard of static, haemoglobin slightly translucent, the blood-red veiny pattern through microvasculature. Forever in motion.

Adrift. Bobbing on the verges of not quite aware.

Moving, lifted, set back down, the brief consciousness fading to heavy again.

A pillow, the crinkle of plastic, of a paper pad designed to absorb fluids - drool, vomit, sweat, worse.

A thumb, the eyelashes caught, pried up. Sounds, urgent, terse, disconnected, nonsensical. More vascular trails against red-hued patterns of the eyelid, still closed. A long tunnel, the distant noise afar off. Until —

Bright, blinding, painful, piercing light.

A wrench, squinting, a gnashing of a flailing head, turning, avoidance, abrupt and ineffective. Uncoordinated.

Whatever it takes, he just wanted to get away from the damned light. And then spots, spots, _spots_ , blue and white flashes, the gradual fade to monochromatic, dust motes settling, faint background noise diminishing to an idle hum.

But god, the next moment, so tired.

A harsh voice. "Hey." More, his shoulder touched, shaken. "Hey, wake up. Open your eyes."

The thumb again. Something in the nose, rigid, the faint smell of plastic. A hand holding firmly over the forehead, also rigid, emphatic, forceful.

"Deep breath. Deep breath." A click, low sensation of ... something, a scent, more like ... _shit_. Spray, annoying, fingers over the nose, another wrench of the head, trying to get away but being held fast. "Come on, take a deep breath." Nasal membrane tissues wet and tingling as the misted medication entered, began to disperse.

_No._

Hard knuckles pressed into his sternum as awareness in his periphery began.

And the terrible metallic smell of oxygen in his nose along with the rescue medication, and he couldn't be arsed to breathe so he didn't. His mind, floating away again, carried away on an ebbing tide. Unanchored, unmoored.

He is unresponsive most of the journey, the lights and sirens, the jolting into an A&E bay.

"Breathe, dammit," a woman spoke, softly urging, followed by another shaking of his shoulder. A plastic pillowed facemask was again placed over his mouth and nose, the faint sensation of air flow, his forehead tilted back, sniffing position, his mandible being opened, and he felt actual chest rise. Tissue perfusion increased, oxygen-rich blood circulated from centrally to peripheral, his fingers, the backs of his hands tingled with the sensation.

Pins and needles, free radical destruction, distant observations, none of it personal.

Then vaguely closer. Sensations other places, too. Tight tourniquet. Cool scrubbing over his hand, his arm, the crook of his elbow.

Sting, digging, sharp piercing pain was followed by a breathy, "Shit, vein blew."

He dozed back off, lapsed back under as the resuscitator bag was squeezed again.

++

The A&E senior physician, three med students in tow, spoke urgently to his charges from the hallway. Within the room, the sound of the heart monitor alarmed, the puff and exhalation valve of the ambu-bag, nurses collaborating on moving the patient, looking for an IV line, the chatter of a team working on a yet-to be-named patient just brought in, a lesser priority of naming as opposed to providing emergency care.

"Highest priority?" he asked the junior doctors, who were young, new, excited, and focused. A faint trace of alarm, heightened alertness, was visible on all of their expressions. Good, as there ought to be.

"Perfusion." One of them said, a bit too tentative to be a confident answer. "Oxygen delivery."

"Wrong." The other two initially were stunned into silence, neither wanting to be incorrect. And publicly so. The senior physician did have a fleeting moment of sympathy, but his point would never be forgotten so he kept on. "Watson?" he prompted.

Dr. John H. Watson, not quite a fully fledged MD, not yet, tugged at his crisp, white lab coat with the embroidered red letters, head tilting just a bit. He didn't disagree with his colleague, not really. But obviously their mentor wanted something else. "My gut says stabilise the airway, but you want something else." He spoke quickly, honestly, in a low voice. "I'm not sure what it is."

"Scene safety." The physician smiled then, "Though the other things are important, truly. But rule number one in A&E, everyone goes home safe. So PPE, always, and don't ever let your guard down around this kind of patient." Three juniors nodded, and felt somewhat better. As well as empowered rather than belittled. The doctor looked at them again. "Do we know for certain that whatever needle he used isn't still somewhere on, under, or inside his person?" Three med students blinked back at him. "So be careful." The doc smiled a bit, his rapt audience watching and hanging on his word, trusting him to equip them, protect them, make sure care was rendered in a safe manner. "Watson, what would you expect to happen with a second dose of naloxone?"

John took a steadying breath. "Quick awakening. Stimulation of respiratory drive, hopefully. Agitation could be likely, given the sudden withdrawal symptoms." The scene safety admonition clicked together with the question then. "Scene safety," he breathed quietly, nodding at the connection, "of course."

”You reverse a high, the patients get rather upset.” He smiled, nodding in agreement. "Well done." He gestured toward the patient, his hand squeezing lightly on John's shoulder in reassurance. "Watson, this one's yours."

++

More snippets. A new voice, even more interesting, attention getting. Younger.

"Primary assessment," the voice began, "survey of vital signs ..." and it continued, the specifics of which the patient tuned out behind heavy eyelids. The voice, an interesting accent, not an original Londoner, but possessed the ease of a man accustomed to giving orders - healthcare, confident, firstborn. "... stable on primary survey."

A new voice, seasoned and bland, from farther away. "What methods can we use to determine responsiveness?" Had the patient more alertness in him, drifting afloat still, he may have groaned. A bloody student, no thank you.

"AVPU is one. Awake, verbal, pain, unresponsive scale. Speaking... shaking ... sternal rub ... nailbed pressure ..."

Sherlock can feel each method demonstrated, the pressure seeming to be on someone else's body, distant, nothing more than the faintest of pressures and easy to ignore.

More mumbling. A few words were clear enough to make out, the low voice, calm. Circulation, airway, breathing. IV access.

"How do you know how long to wait before another dose of naloxone?" He tuned out the answer, and some time later there was the hand back on his head, his nose being fussed with, a click, brief immobilization, then more fluid and an unpleasant scent of something in his nose.

 _I paid a lot of money for this high, for this escape, and you are not ruining it for me._  He exhaled, snorted out, strong as he could, through his nose.

"See that?" the voice was back. "Sign right there no further doses probably will be needed. He's vaguely aware on some level. How long do we monitor for recurrence, opioid rebound, when the naloxone wears off?"

Another voice, female, quieter, "... hours ... consider an infusion?"

The closer voice, stronger, "No. There's no route yet. He still has no IV access."

More scrubbing, another jab, a pinch, the other arm this time. One on the back of his hand. _Bloody amateurs._

Sherlock drifted off again, awash on a sea of languor and apathy. A little while later, he was unaware of the discussion.

"Dr. Watson, explain the difficulty obtaining IV access, and talk us through our options and alternatives please."

The thumb was back again, eyes pried open, and fingers pressed on his jaw, turning his head, and he feels the gloved fingers brush along his neck veins. "Cardiovascular collapse secondary to drug ingestion. Opioid presumably given the response to intranasal naloxone. Dehydration." John kept an eye on the bedside cardiac monitor. "Hypotensive but not dangerously so yet. Neck veins are flat." There were more places he felt on this patient, eyes still closed, not moving. Groin artery palpation was normal, brachial pulses also. "If he's a chronic IV drug abuser, seems there'd be more scarring on his non-dominant cubital sites."

The more distant voice again, mildly impatient. "Alternatives."

"IO. Triple lumen, femoral or IJ. Successful peripheral, preferably, given his relatively stable presentation..."

Until he felt, some distance away, more touching, the sound of scissors, cool sensations down the outside of his trousers, his leg exposed to air. His limbs, feeling them again, not new, sensation returning. The tightening around his arms - one a tourniquet, the other, another automatic blood pressure measurement. Random questions back and forth, the onlookers, words and sounds. Now and again, an alarm, a soft plastic about his face, a forced inhalation.

"... attempting an IO?" The voice, followed by a thumb again, prying his eyelid up. There was bright light, the vision of blond hair and blue eyes looking back at him, clear with intermittent shaking, his vision jittery, a torch shining, flicking, his own inability to squint or move away. "Some mild nystagmus."

Another new voice, a new arrival. An introduction, not that he gave it any mind. "Tiffany from the IV team, to look for an IV."

Vaguely, in the distance, he was aware of more scrubbing, his other arm, and he could feel the waves of his narcotic induced sleep rolling over his head, sucking him down, pulling him under. He sighed into it. Yes please. 

Nodding out. Again. Running toward it.

The senior physician nodded at John, "Respiratory depth and rate is changing. Dr. Watson," and his raise of the brow and urgency in his voice spurred John to quickly snap a glance at the monitor. Without an explanation, John moved for the ambu bag again. Squeeze. Count off six seconds. Squeeze.

"More naloxone," John stated, and it was brought quickly, administered by one of the nurses in a synchronised coordination with John, who moved the artificial airway away from the patient long enough for the narcan to be quickly given. "I would recommend intubation."

"Is he difficult to ventilate?"

John squeezed again, watching chest rise and oxygen levels - both fully acceptable. "Not at all."

"Just give narcan for now. Wait to see if it works."

"I disagree," John said. "What if ...?"

The senior physician smiled, held a cautionary hand out. "Strong pulse. Give the med a minute." Their eyes held a moment, John uncertain, the doctor confident. "Trust me."

"Line's in, finally," Tiffany said with no small degree of pride. "Managed to get labs, too. He's a tough one. Dry?"

"Probably. Nice job, thank you," John said quickly, doing another head to toe survey. "Fluids, saline, wide."

"Lab orders?"

John blinked, stared, eyes wide, and at his hesitation, the other students, the IV team nurse also stared back at him, the entirety of the room seemingly waiting on his words, his orders. He could remember none of the standard protocols for acute overdose as far as lab studies. "Haematology, chemistry panel." Blink, think, think. “Troponin,” he hedged, but saw his mentor nod, the tension giving him sweaty palms. It was obvious he was stalling, speaking aloud to himself to organise his thoughts. "Tox screen is urine. ABG would be arterial." He counted off in his head, squeezed the ambu bag again. "In the meantime, in lieu of intubation, nasopharyngeal airway." Another squeeze of the bag, and his memory released. "Creatine phosphokinase and lactic acid." He exhaled, relieved the names of the tests had come back to him.

"Good, rule out crush injury and muscle necrosis." The doctor, satisfied with John for the moment, and turned to glance at one of the others. "Why, Dr. Jennings, is the nasopharyngeal airway preferred over the oropharyngeal airway in this patient?"

The answer, something along the lines of effect, that it stimulates the respiratory center and increases the respiratory drive, was unheard by Sherlock. He also missed the statement of his name that someone found in his wallet after his clothing had been cut off.

The same voice, "Have you ever inserted one?"

Sherlock was puzzled over who they were talking to, talking about, and he did not see John nod his head affirmatively. So he was somewhat taken by surprise when the mask was removed from his face, and his eyes opened half mast to see two people, both wearing blue gloves, one hand was holding a green, rubbery, curved object. That same voice from earlier, the older physician speaking directions as John hovered over his face, eyes bright. "Right, surgilube, slides in with a rotation into place, be sure to ..." And John grasped Sherlock's forehead as he approached, the airway beginning to go in.

At the new sensation, Sherlock's eyes opened fully, suddenly, and in his ever-sharp mind, he reached up with surprising quickness to grab the wrist of the now petrified doctor in training. But nothing moved, not at all, his hands as if detached, not belonging to his body. His resistance was all in his head. Pressure in his nose, odd, annoying, and then his brain was much more engaged than what should have been the case, and there was pressure and cool slipperyness invading him. His nose of all things, for gods sake. "No," he managed to squeeze out of his voice, but the sound was unintelligible and there was a soft, flexible, dreadfully annoying slimy tube in his right nostril. He tried to turn, wriggle away, but the grip on his head held firm.

"You're okay. Just breathe," the blue-eyed blond told him.

"Might've been just the thing to wake him up more, Dr. Watson," came the voice from off to the side. "There'll be ample opportunity to intubate if he needs it, but it's best not to rush unless there's clear indication."

Sherlock blinked, snorted forcefully, trying to dislodge the tube, and then without warning his eyes drifted to half closed again. John watched the patient, dark curls, high cheekbones, now breathing more deeply. A glance at the monitor again, and he frowned, knowing he needed to get ahead here, lead the group along. "Secondary survey," John continued, “Now that there's IV access, fluids infusing," and he recounted treatments so far and patient response. "Differential diagnosis includes acute intoxication, recreational drug overdose, intentional or suicidal overdose, other metabolic syndromes though fingerstick glucose was normal, no trauma suspected ..."

++

Across from the patient's room, the doctors clustered around a large computer screen as John continued his management and evaluation of the patient's laboratory findings, radiology study, and electrocardiogram.

A sudden flurry inside the room, the sound of something loud and metallic crashing to the floor, the dismay of the nurse. "Oh no, just lie back. Mr Holmes! Don't do that! Stop! I need some help in here."

John was not necessarily the closest, but he was already on his feet and moving without conscious decision to do so. He led the rest of the quickly responding providers inside the room.

The bed was empty, the IV infusing onto the floor, the small metal overbed tray tipped over, the green NP airway thrown to the floor. Monitor leads dangled into the vacated bed, and the patient stood with his bony legs hanging out the bottom of the patient gown that hung unheeded off one shoulder. "I'll take an AMA form now." Blood trickled down from his right arm, from where the IV had been, a slow crimson fountain traversing arm, wrist, over his palm, dropping to the floor in big, fat drops of blood.

John grabbed gloves from the wall rack while Sherlock watched. He was wary, blinking fast, clearly not processing all that well yet.

"Stay away from me."

"You're bleeding," John said calmly, gesturing to the IV site that was indeed dripping blood. "Gauze, tape. That's all for the moment."

"Call my brother, he'll come pick me up."

"First let's stop you from bleeding all over my floor," John told him.

"Not your floor, _med student_." A snarl, but weak. Sherlock's eyes couldn't seem to hold still, and he glanced from John to the others, around the room, to the empty stretcher with the rumpled sheet, the dots of blood, his feet.

"It is today." At Sherlock's skeptical look, John continued. "You realise we only want to see you get some help."

"You realise you ruined my high," he said, backing away. "I don't have a problem. Can stop anytime."

John snickered at that, wondering if it was worth lunging at the patient, letting those half a step behind him help subdue the patient and get him back into bed. "Look. Sit down, so we can stop that from bleeding." Sherlock's expression was quite wary as John stepped confidently close enough to press a gauze to the bleeding site. "Bad form to pull out an IV, particularly one we worked so hard to get."

"Idiots, the lot of you," he muttered. "I have some great veins right here, and the back of my arm, right here." He bent his elbow to show that, in fact, he did have a rather prominent vein running along his ulnar bone, the other, as he'd pointed, along the thumb of his dominant hand.

"Of course they're better now, you've had a liter ..."

"Neophytes."

John did not engage with that, simply continued to press the gauze firmly. "Next time, then, start your own bloody IV before you shoot up, save us the trouble."

"Next time, leave me alone, I was fine."

"Right. A few minutes from dead, you were."

"Dismiss your goons, student." Sherlock glanced at the handful of people still in the room, watching him as if a caged animal, a curiosity. He squinted at John's name badge. "John, if you prefer."

"Dr. Watson." He spoke quietly, a brow raising as he did. A quick glance over his shoulder assured himself that the rest of the providers were indeed staying in the room.

"Not yet. You still have boards, and some of your residency. _John_ ," he said again, fussing, deliberately goading. "Or _Mr._ Watson, if you are really up-tight about the first name thing."

"How about sitting down?"

"You sit down, I'm fine."

"Not yet, you're not. More awake, I'll admit to that." John gestured at the bed. "You need to be monitored a minimum of two hours after a dose of naloxone for possible rebound effect."

"Sod off." He blinked a few times, trying to clear probably his vision and his thinking, and his speech was mildly slurred, deliberate. "I'm not staying. I'll call my brother. He'll pick me up, at ... where are we this time?"

"This time," John echoed, a sad smile, the sadness of another promising young man with an addiction problem. "Barts." John squinted at him a bit. "How many times have you done this in the past? Overdose that required an A&E visit?"

Sherlock stared at him, just those pale blue-gray eyes looking back at him. The nystagmus was gone, anyway. He was silent for a while, and then, looking steadily at John said, "Three times here at Barts, including now. Twice at Queen Mary's." John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock looked away. "A time or two a few other places."

"Do you have a deathwish?"

"My _wish_ ," Sherlock snarled as John taped a fresh gauze in place, "is to sign myself out of here."

"I believe you're a threat to yourself, and I would be completely within my rights as a concerned physician --"

"Almost physician."

"Oi, shut up," John breathed quickly, and quiet enough to be for Sherlock alone and not his instructor. "-- to keep you here." John pressed the tape against his skin but did not let go of his arm. "It would be negligent of me to release you, to allow you to sign yourself out in this state."

Sherlock looked around the room. "I need a phone. To call my brother. And then I am leaving."

"I don't think so." John weighed his options, he already had one of the patient's arms, his gloved hands holding snugly, still staunching the bleeding. 

"Let go of me." The patient demanded, harshly, and he struggled a bit against John's hold. He was strong, surprisingly so, given the recent status of being obtunded. "Give over."

"Dr. Watson," his mentor spoke from a few steps behind him. "Let's have the patient sit down at the very least. Mr. Holmes," he said, "please sit before you fall. Either the stretcher or the chair. Your choice."

John pressed tape over the gauze before he let go and took a step back, mindful of the earlier admonition that everyone goes home safe. "Take it easy. We're trying to help you." The tone, the authority, the air of being fully in charge must have triggered something, and Sherlock bobbled a little on his feet without John's assistance, and as John reached for him, he did in fact sit back down on the stretcher. It was a stark contrast to earlier, blinking rapidly, and he glanced about, trying to get his bearings again.

"I'm not staying here two hours for your bloody monitoring." From the bed, he shifted restlessly, but he had overall seemed to relax. For the moment. "I need a phone to contact my brother."

"If you'll provide me with his number, I'll ring him from the desk. Explain that you ..."

"No." A hand, palm up, appeared. "Mobile." He stared at John, then turned his gaze to the nurse standing close, expectantly.

John imagined a few scenarios, wondered about the wisdom of doing so, decided to go for it anyway, choosing his battles in the effort to win the war. "Here," he said, removing his glove to pull his mobile from his pocket. "Use mine."

Sherlock received the mobile, a small bobble and then clumsy fingers and thumbs flying over the keys, blinking from time to time as his vision seemed unclear, and a few false starts but some hyper-concentration and he persisted. When he was finished, he tipped his head back against the raised stretcher as if the focus, the concentration, had been exhausting.

John observed aloud, "Ringing might have been easier."

"I prefer to text." His speech was a bit more slurred as he lay, eyes still closed, head back. His chin jutted toward the ceiling, his neck extended. It was quite apparent that whatever he'd taken was still circulating when his muscle tone changed and his body relaxed.

John's mentor, from just behind him, made a few comments about watching both rate and depth of respiration, and asked quietly if John thought the heart monitor was necessary.

"I do, yes. Pity about the IV, though, too." With a smile, the senior doctor gestured back to the equipment and smiled at John as if he expected him to do it. John took additional electrodes, and snapped them on the leads before hovering uncertainly over the patient, who was still and quiet, eyes closed. "Back on the monitor with you. Leave these, this time."

When the cool gel under the adhesive touched his skin, Sherlock opened an eye only partway, reached up sluggishly as if to remove them. Catching his hand, holding up above the equipment, John waited until Sherlock looked at him. 

" _Leave that_ ," John said again, harshly directing in a no-nonsense tone, and Sherlock narrowed an eye at him sleepily but didn't protest again. "So, what did you take today?"

"Well that's an idiotic question, is it not?"

John was not fazed. "We'll be needing a urine sample for toxicology, to see if there's anything else along with the heroin."

"No." He fussed a little, his hand resting on the cable. "Absolutely not."

"Then leave the monitor on. Two hours, as I've already told you."

"My brother's coming to collect me."

"And I'll be telling him the same thing. Two hours." John slid the pulse oximetry monitor back on his finger as well only to have Sherlock immediately flick it off. "Leave that, too."

A brief stand-off, John holding the monitor on Sherlock's finger, watching for the reading and signal to average and quantify.

Sherlock glared. 

"Be glad I'm not insisting - yet - on the IV being restarted."

Rallying then, a faint burst of energy, Sherlock started to sit forward, clearly intending to get off the bed, and John's hand remained where it was, restricting his movement. "Let go of me."

"I'm fairly certain you'd rather I not put you in restraints."

"I refuse. I'm leaving AMA."

"You're a threat to yourself. Minimum monitoring post naloxone is ..."

"Yes, two hours I know. Good god, you're a nag. A bloody, boring, broken record. But you can't make me stay."

"Actually," John said with a sharp smile, "I can. You've heard of the term sectioning?"

A surprised, stunned look on Sherlock's face was followed by a deep breath. John could tell that Sherlock was getting ready to unleash a tirade of unhappiness and protest. “Absolutely not, you blithering idiots, the ...”

“I don’t recommend testing me,” John said with a serious cock of his head. "I really don't."

Sherlock huffed, once, and with a slightly deflated sigh, said, “You wouldn’t.” It lacked conviction, the desperate attempt at getting his way while knowing he’d have to comply.

"Okay, so perhaps staying the two hours, not such a bad deal after all?" John shook his head, as if pitying him. "I'll explain all this, and more, to your brother when he arrives." Opting not to engage further, John made a quick note on his pocket notebook and smiled blandly to the patient. "Until then, Mr. Holmes."

With more bravado than he was either feeling or entitled to, John strode from the room, leaving one of the nurses behind. His instructor and fellow classmates followed him out.

++

John checked his mobile as it buzzed from his pocket, an incoming text from an unknown number.

He read Sherlock's sent message first, then the unsigned reply.

**Borrowed a mobile. I'm at Barts, come at once to pick me up. SH**

_**Again? Already? For shame.** _

John was still staring at the mobile screen, wondering a bit more about the dynamics and the history when it vibrated again with another incoming text.

_**I'll be there shortly. Again.** _

++

John, his co-students, and his instructor were listening to a patient recount his medical history from shortly after he was born - not John's patient, _thank goodness_ \- when the charge nurse from the A&E tapped him. "Your patient's family is here."

John cast a curious glance at his instructor, who nodded, and John left the room - and the tedious diatribe of irrelevant, remote childhood maladies - somewhat gratefully to follow the nurse.

"His brother, Mr. Holmes's, I mean, is here. Wishes quite emphatically to speak with you." There was a serious expression from the nurse, a frown, her tone a bit cautious and warning him at the same time. "Quite," she reiterated. John could read between the lines that the encounter had not been, nor was it likely to be, pleasant on any level.

Sherlock was laying on the stretcher, still, a taller somewhat aloof apparent older sibling standing near, both of them watching the doorway as John entered.

John smiled pleasantly, crossed the room, "You must be Mr. Holmes, I am Dr. W-"

Briefly, the man raked his eyes across John's person, taking in his status and the rest. His shoulders and expression quite clearly conveyed his having found John lacking. "I'll need to speak with your overseer, then." The dismissive tone was downright rude. "Sherlock's _actual_ physician."

"I'll be glad to fetch him of course. But he's rather tied up at the moment, so I can speak with you if you wish, in the meantime."

A small snort, a blatantly ignorant looking away without responding.

John glanced between them, opting not to engage on the rudeness, but focus on his job instead. "Mr. Holmes," John began, glancing at the monitor quickly - mostly normal if a bit tachycardic. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a hostage, thanks to you." From the reclining position on the stretcher, Sherlock pulled up a knee, missed slightly as he tried to get his hand to rest on the top of the knee, his efforts still slightly uncoordinated.

John could work with the sarcastic thanks, let a slight smirk be visible as he replied, "You're welcome." With a pursed expression of his mouth, Sherlock's fingers wandered across his body, found and grabbed then at the monitor leads. "I told you before, let that alone." John tapped lightly at Sherlock's hands that were threatening the cable and the electrodes, the disconnection of whatever he came in contact with. "Leave it," John said, low and serious.

"You're an idiot. King of all idiots, perhaps. And incompetent -"

John smiled for real at that, feeling the bluster and sensing that Sherlock was indeed more awake, more his irascible self. Sherlock actually stopped speaking at John's grin, so he felt the need to explain the smile, inappropriate though it was. "I have no issues with name calling, so if it pleases you, the juvenile behaviour, have at it." And he spread his arms just a bit, watching his pupillary responses carefully, his skin tone, the way his extraocular movements had mostly returned to normal. "And if keeping you safe and alive means a few minutes of your childishness, I'm fine with that." John consulted the clipboard at the bedside, then the clock on the wall. "You have another hour, not quite, until your monitoring is completed."

"Mycroft, do something."

Both John and Sherlock looked at the other man, who rocked back on his heels slightly as he looked quite literally down his nose at the both of them, his annoyance and displeasure in the sneer on his face.

"I'll have that update now." There was a slight flare of his nostrils and a twitch of the high brow. "From you I suppose." His tone completely conveyed that he was in no uncertain terms, settling.

John couldn't help poking back just a little. "I'll be glad to let my supervisor come talk to you, when he's free that is, if you prefer it." He made sure to sound as bored and neutral as possible, staring back.

"You'll do," he said, condescension positively dripping from each drawn out syllable. "For now."

"All right. May we speak here, or do you prefer to step out into the hall?" John directed that question at both of them.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and said nothing. Mycroft made a surrendering gesture at the room and no effort to move, leave, or otherwise indicate that he intended to go anywhere.

John was grateful for his quick mind that retained details, and he began to summarise. "He was found in an abandoned warehouse, approximately ninety minutes ago, if you want the exact times I'll need to consult the computer. Ambulance was notified by a fellow resident who fled the scene before help arrived. Intranasal naloxone was administered at the scene with only mild responsiveness. Rescue breathing en route to our location, and there was never loss of a pulse. Skin colour was good when my colleagues and I ..." John spoke clearly, confidently, continuing the management and treatment thus far, and was vaguely aware that Sherlock was paying close attention, as was the fact that early on in his recitation, his overseer had entered the room behind him and was also listening. "... and so his lab work was normal. Vital signs are acceptable, and with his mentation, we opted to leave the IV site out while he continued to be monitored, pending your arrival."

"Did the police accompany him here?"

"They would have been on scene, but no, they did not, best of my knowledge."

The elder Holmes glared at the younger. "You realise it's violation of your probation if they found you in possession." John couldn't stop the sigh, though it was quiet, and it drew Mycroft's attention. "Did you actually threaten my brother with being sectioned?"

"I did." John qualified nothing, added no further details, but glanced back toward his mentor. He hesitated long enough, the question unasked, and his mentor shook his head very slightly as if to discourage explanation. The faint nod of approval - _that's fine, say no more_ \- was quite affirming, and John felt his own confidence ratchet up a notch or two. Mycroft blinked a few times, glanced at Sherlock apparently waiting for some reaction - or a denial perhaps - and when there was none, John added, "Did you have any additional questions, anything I didn't cover?"

"What are your recommendations?"

"Rehab." 

That word brought a sharp snort from the bed followed by an exhaled curse.

"My opinion. Do with it what you will. And some drastic lifestyle changes." John glanced back at the other doctor. "Anything you wanted to add, sir?"

"No, quite thorough, Dr. Watson." His words were quiet, tactful, and John was aware of the sizzling power dynamics in the room, the use of his title meant to convey exactly that.

Matter of factly, John nodded at both Holmes'. "I shall return, then, with discharge paperwork when it is due." 

Sherlock swung his feet up. "I'm fine, I'm good. And I'm leaving now."

John could feel his shoulders square, almost before he could think to do it intentionally, but other than that, he didn't move a muscle. His smile was small and perhaps bordering on sinister, certainly it seemed like, _don't-tempt-me_ at a minimum. "I do believe you know what will happen if you do."

Like the defiant toddlers from John's previous paeds rota, the man sat for a few moments, arms braced as if he were giving serious thought to getting up anyway, defiantly, to exit the stretcher. His pale eyes looked steadily at John. There was a sharpness, a sensation that he was sizing up his enemy. The narrowing of an eyelid, a squint that said _'oh yeah?'_

John did not shy away from the challenge, the dare. "I believe I was quite clear."

The standoff continued a few moments.

A few steps away, Mycroft chuckled at that, and when he realised the sound had been quite readily overheard, he laughed again with no effort to contain it. At their glance, he shrugged and explained. "It would make things so much easier for me if you just did that Sherlock. So have at it - it's your choice." Mycroft consulted his pocketwatch. "You stay the remaining almost fifty minutes, or you don't and Dr. Watson initiates that paperwork."

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath, then shut his eyes, swung his feet back on the bed, silent. The paeds similarity continued for John, who would absolutely have categorised that expression as a pout.

++

Forty-seven minutes later, John and the discharge nurse entered the room. Sherlock was sullen, his stroppy sulking over the ultimatum he'd been given still apparently irksome.

"You are clear to leave."

"Finally. This was a ridiculous waste --"

John interrupted the latest complaint, coolly assertive. "Thank you for staying. It was a good choice, and I know you didn't want to." John affirmed, then waited until Sherlock looked at him straight on, a hint of surprise. An acknowledgement of what it had cost him. "You do need, and I think your brother agrees, to get some help." Mycroft had looked up from the chair where he was paying attention to his mobile, but had paused to listen to John. "One day, you might not get as lucky as you were today."

"This was not lucky." The sneer and the gesture at John, at the A&E bay, indicating what he meant.

"This was _very_ lucky, actually." John contradicted him immediately. "Would you have preferred being abandoned at the old skip they found you in, dead, getting cold, all by yourself? Or perhaps found, and brought here anyway in this building laying in the mortuary all zipped nice and snug inside a body bag?" Something clicked inside John, and his tongue loosened. "I'll tell you something else," he started, pointing an index finger in Sherlock's direction, "you're a bright man, obviously, and you are _wasting_ your talents." He watched Sherlock and his brother blink once before continuing. "I should also tell you, had it been my decision, I'd have had you on a ventilator with an airway to ensure you not only survived the day, but that you woke up with some very uncomfortable tubes, meds, on life support, in our ICU. In part, hoping that the repercussion, some unpleasant associations, well, I thought experiences like that just might get your attention. You are fortunate - yes, lucky - that my decision got overruled."

"Amateur. That's why they don't let you junior doctors off by yourself, your decisions are flawed --"

Mycroft was on his feet, cleared his throat, and in the pause of Sherlock's tirade, he interjected, "Pity it didn't happen exactly that way." His words, his gaze caught John's attention, and he continued, "For all the reasons you just mentioned." Sherlock glared as if betrayed, and Mycroft seemed to preen, to gloat. “For your own good, brother.”

"In the end," John added, softening, "it was ultimately the right call, I suppose. You responded to the rescue medication, and ultimately seem to have rallied. This time." With a careful glance over his shoulder, he looked unsmiling then at Mycroft and Sherlock both. "This is your wake-up call." They looked back, steadily. "What you do next, with this, is up to you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer for Sherlock's A&E treatment: I have seen physicians give additional Narcan to prevent needing a prolonged medical stay (intubation, ICU admission, and all the complications that go along with that). I have also seen early intubation for exactly the reasons discussed here, to leave an impression, to assure consequences of behaviour. John would have been right insisting on intubation, however, he wisely backed down under direction of his superior and waiting/observing was also right.
> 
> I am leaving this piece as more of a snippet, as are the next two chance encounters.
> 
> ++ 
> 
> Naloxone and narcan are the same thing and the terms are used interchangeably.


	2. Fortunate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time they met, Sherlock was not expecting him, but _very_ relieved when John showed up.
> 
> ++
> 
> At the end of the last chapter, Sherlock had been a patient in the A&E with significant symptoms of a recreational drug overdose, with med student John attending to him.

It had begun for Sherlock as a few other things had - direct defiance of something his annoying clod of a brother had suggested in jest, had looked down his arrogant bashable nose and disdainfully advised him that his venipuncture skills could be put to better use. Mycroft had come to visit - check up on him in the damned facility - bring him several changes of clothing more to his liking as he whittled away at the requisite endless days he'd been forced to agree to.

And he'd had no other choice: The police had indeed shown up, a warning this time but with conditions imposed none-the-less. Fortunately this time, there'd been nothing found on him, just _in_ him.

The brothers were visiting in a dingy, threadbare family visitation room. Off in one corner sat a teenager still withdrawing enough to have the shakes. A small family huddled on a couch, a baby trying to get away from a parent who wanted to do nothing but hug, cry, and apologise.

Mycroft was still fussing, trying to suss out something that Sherlock might have been interested in. A job. A return to uni. _Some_ thing. Sherlock had growled low, complaining that there wasn't a good market for his unique skillset. Mycroft had uttered a quick, "indeed" followed by some mumbling something about arranging to get him shipped to the states where he could help with lethal injections, but Sherlock's brain had skidded to a halt about the actual idea, the likelihood, of putting his skills to better use.

His skills - venipuncture, phlebotomy, shooting up, blood-letting, call it whatever - were quite proficient.

He had the medical history, the recreational overdoses, to prove it. And with his using, his injections, he had very minimal scarring for all of the use - his *ahem* former use, he clarified to himself. His technique, amazing. He knew to rotate, use small, new needles, inject carefully, not drag the needles on the way in or the way out, to be vigilant, holding pressure. He disdained the through and through method for the simple syringe-needle procedure, but he'd read enough to know that, given the chance, his Seldinger technique would be second nature if he had but the equipment. He'd helped a few people - users, addicts - with their technique, offering scathing directions, demonstrating, and a few times, actually performing it for them.

Now, to find a market ...

But first, to sweet talk his way out of yet another rehab, yet again.

Bloody Mycroft. But just perhaps ... a bloody good suggestion.

++

**I just wanted to thank you again for taking care of my brother a few days ago. M. Holmes**

John found the text in between study sessions in his flat, opted to take a quick stretch break, get a glass of water, needing the brief activity of walking. **You're welcome. I hope both of you have settled on a plan. Drastic measures, as I had mentioned, if needed. John Watson**

**Oh yes, acute rehab, community service, and I believe there needs to be a job in the wings. You know what they say about idle hands... MH**

**Of course. A good plan, then.**

**An idle mind is probably even more dangerous for my brother. MH**

**Best of luck to you both. JW**

++

John blinked several times, feeling the snugness of his surgical mask, the perfect fit of his sterile gloves, and focusing on the landmarks he knew, the ridge of bone, the space under the collarbone, the rise and fall of the intercostal space coinciding with the ventilator-assisted respirations of the patient.

His mentor stood across from him, also surgically garbed, but his hands folded comfortably in front of him, watching and ready, but clearly communicating that this was John's procedure, John's to manage.

"Bit of a pinch, and some burning, just the numbing medication," John said quietly, knowing the patient was sedated, his mentation altered, but it had been not only ingrained but compassionate to explain things. "Couple of minutes, we'll get this line in for you." He performed the sterile scrub, the chlorhexidine, patterning back and forth, then allowed it to dry. 

One of the nurses came into the room opposite him to silence the monitor alarm - low blood pressure, again - and made an adjustment to one of the IV pumps. "Taking the norepi to twenty."

"I see it," he said quietly, shooting a quick glance at the monitor, the systolic blood pressure in the seventies. "Maxed. Okay. We'll get the line in, add vasopressin soon as we have it." _God please let this go in smoothly, quickly, or this patient is ..._ "May I have a few degrees of trendelenberg please?"

The physician opposite him nodded, watching, conveying confidence while the nurse unlocked the bed controls and pressed a few buttons, shifting the equipment and thus the patients intravascular volume so that the subclavian veins would be hopefully a little more full.

John palpated with his glove, fed the introducer needle bevel up, feeling his way in, slowly. The sensation through the syringe changed, and he shifted his grip to steady the kit, pulled back on the plunger to find a brisk, deep red blood return. "Okay," he breathed as he removed the syringe from the large needle, "progress. In goes the wire," he said quietly to himself, though he knew his instructor needed to hear it, his plan too and what he was thinking. He smoothly shifted his fingers again slightly to feed the guidewire through the introducer, steadily, the faint ooze of blood through the needle acceptable, expected. He glanced at the monitor as he did, feeling the counter-pulsations of each heart beat, a light throb to his sensitive fingers. He guided the wire with his thumb and index finger, advancing slowly. Once he'd reached the appropriate length, he stopped. "No arrhythmia, good. Now," and he directed his attention back to the needle, sliding it over the wire and bringing the actual central line over the guidewire and into place. With deft skill, he used the scalpel to widen the hole, slid the line fully in, removed the guidewire, and daubed the area clean. "Sutures?"

"Curved or straight?" the nurse asked.

"Curved." He looked up in time to catch the pleasantly impressed expression on the nurse's face as she opened the pack, held them while he took them, maintaining sterility. "Thanks." A few quick, interrupted sutures and the line was secure. Continuing to work quickly, he primed the caps with a few flushes, seated them on the end of each lumen, then risked a glance at his instructor. Steady eyes looked back at him, a warm, pleased expression about his eyes, the smile he knew was there but it was hidden underneath the mask. John spoke to the nurse. "I'll dress this, and then he'll need a chest xray to assure no pneumo, then the line is good to use."

The blood pressure cuff cycled again. "Sixty-two systolic, line's just in time," the nurse observed. "I'll add that vasopressin. Thanks." There was gratitude in her face, her eyes, the set of her smile, and John knew she was relieved that the patient could now be treated even more aggressively.

John scrubbed clean the site again, placed the antimicrobial biopatch in place, then neatly eased the clear dressing overtop. He slit the sterile drape, binned the sharps into the proper receptacle, cleaned up his work area, and removed his gloves, mask, and gown. He raised the siderail and was quick to get out of the way for the portable radiology equipment to confirm no complications.

In the hallway, his mentor raised a serious but thoughtful brow at him. "First subclavian line?"

"Yes sir."

There was a faint frown, a consideration of John in all his element, and his instructor nodded again. "Very nice. Have you given any thought to pursuing our surgical candidacy here?" His eyes were sincere, and John knew that these kinds of compliments were not the norm. "I see potential, if you're interested."

 _Oh god, yes._ He'd been hoping, was going to ask later in the rotation for more experience, more exposure, to get honest feedback as he yearned, hoped, wanted to chase his dream. Surgery! He knew the grin was unstoppable, but his voice was steady and calm when he answered, "Yes sir. I am definitely interested," he forced himself to breathe, not give away too much of his hand then continued. "I would like that very much, thank you."

++

"This paper, this packaging, each tube labeled, your initials. Make sure the orders match up with the name, date of birth, your ID code. If the form is incomplete, you get called back out to do it again."

Sherlock worked extremely hard at not rolling his eyes or calling the unit manager an idiot. "The form is simple and even a trained monkey could --"

"Shut it, Holmes." His immediate supervisor raised an annoyed brow. "You'll spend a shift over at the outpatient registration lab, make sure your skills are adequate. If you need more practice, your preceptor will call me to set it up. Day after, you'll shadow a phlebotomist, go mobile, and then we'll see."

"Seems an unnecessary waste of time, your processes are --"

"You know what?" came the caustic voice with a bit of an aggrieved nod. "Just give me a reason, just one, and you're out." The raised eyebrow, an annoyed look, and Sherlock knew that none of this had been voluntary. His brother, calling in a favour. Of this unwilling person who had the misfortune of being in a position to help and yet would be thrilled to see him fail.

Sherlock needed him, wanted this opportunity, and so he closed his mouth.

"Bring your completed checklist and make sure to actually take the test in the manual." The manual was handed over to him in a manner that was anything but friendly. "Company policy, random drug tests at my discretion." Over the handbook, Sherlock was handed a clear specimen cup with a blue lid and a thermometer strip along the bottom to assure that the specimen was an appropriate temperature upon collection consistent with body temperature. "Starting now."

Sherlock blinked, took the items. His jaws ached with another clenching, trying to hold in the scathing remarks that wanted to burst forth.

"Coat off, empty your pockets, take your shoes off." The man moved to the doorway of the loo. Flipping the light switch, he entered, taped over the sink, and glared at Sherlock as he hesitantly entered, sans shoes and coat. The contents of his trouser pockets were left on a chair. "I'll be waiting just outside the door. So don't turn on the taps to wash your hands until I've got your sample. And ... don't try to get away with anything."

Single nod. He could do this. There wasn't much choice. Mycroft had applied the screws, and to fail was to have the probation violation processed.

He needed this.

++

Training was indeed, as Sherlock knew it was going to be, a ridiculous waste of his time. Outpatient lab registration went mostly without a hitch. He performed each phlebotomy at the hospital, obtaining each specimen on the first try with the exception of the teenage girl who'd suddenly, without warning, yanked her arm away shrieking when he'd just obtained the flashback of blood. The regular phlebotomists, by the end of the morning, gave him the more difficult patients, the fragile veins of the oncology patients, the children (which thankfully, another phlebotomist did the actual talking to while the parent did the holding - he simply stuck), the malnourished, the infirm. At the end of the morning, he'd long since been signed off on the various testing, the number of sticks, the different collection techniques, the order of the draw, the sampling supplies, and he'd also earned one thing he hadn't counted on:  their grudging respect.

The following day, he met one of the current mobile phlebotomists who accompanied him on the busy appointment schedule for the morning. They did random therapeutic drug levels, chemistries, cultures, haematology studies. They met a few patients that required some contact with the ordering physician for either clarification or additional testing ordered. One of the patients was so weak and winded he could barely answer the door and very weakly speak, necessitating a more urgent call to the physician and the summons of a family member to take the person to the doctors office. They encountered locked doors, wrongly transcribed addresses, people not home or not answering, nice pets, snarling pets, unsafe streets, and all levels of socioeconomic statuses.

Mostly, he did as he was told and bit his tongue at the tedium and time wasting they did. To survive, he kept his motivation ever before him - looking at the various flats, residences, homes, and situations available for housing in diverse areas of London. More than anything at the moment, Sherlock wanted away from Mycroft and into a place of his own, to get away from his current living environment. There were threats of disinheritance if he became homeless, destitute, or ended up with another recreational overdose. And he wanted _out_.

++

"Good morning, Sherlock Holmes, here to obtain your lab sample this morning?"

"Hello, I'm here on behalf of your doctor, to get your bloodwork."

"I'm looking for a Mr. Riordan, I have an appointment."

"Excuse me, I had called last evening to schedule a blood draw. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

ad infinitum

ad nauseum

But _damn_ , he was a good stick.

++

John's fingers flew over the keyboard as he put the final edits on the paper he was turning in, expounding on the challenges, potential complications, and optimal management of outpatient surgical procedures in a freestanding setting. It would get submitted in time, but just. His studies, his rugby matches, and his floundering social life left little time for anything else, and he was nearly half way through his med school rotations, where classroom work would taper off and more clinical times would be the norm. And then, if it continued to go well, surgical residency.

Submit. The button failed to click, the screen frozen. Again. And then a blue screen flickered. Again. Oh no. Oh no. _Please, no-no-no-no-no._

He could feel his heart sink at the realisation. He held his breath when the screen resurrected itself, back to life, and the submit button high-lit. Immediately, he held his breath as he pressed it, and then he received the "submission complete" notification. It was unfortunately followed by a sizzle, black screen, and the scent of fried electronics.

Oh god, the paper was submitted just in time. Thankfully.

But, damn. The computer lab times were never convenient and a damned nuisance on campus, but his was now - in all likelihood - unsalvageable. The short term fix was not going to be fun, the scheduling even harder. No choice but for it, he was going to need a new computer. And an actual, paying job to be able to afford it.

++

His mobile rang between patients, the home office checking in. "Mr. Holmes, it's Suzanne at accessioning. Can you swing by, see if you can get labs? Kurt is at a client, can't find a vein."

Sherlock consulted his patient listing for the day as he walked, his bag of supplies over one shoulder. It wasn't too far away, a couple of tube stations and a few blocks. "I'll be there in twenty. Have him warm up the patient's arms."

It was not the first, nor would it be the last time he was summoned to get bloodwork from someone that the other phlebotomists missed, couldn't get, or had other difficulties.

His bank account, and the respect of those he worked for and with, grew.

And he only missed the thrill of self-performed venipuncture, and the artificially triggered chemical rush that followed, a little tiny bit. 

++

One of his favourite profs, Dr. Mike Stamford, kept a bulletin board outside his office, and it was there that John found a help wanted advert with flexible hours that was at least in his field of interest. An ambulance company was seeking part time flexible medics and other health workers who would cover calls, follow standard orders and protocols, help with transports, respond to emergencies. As a physician in training this far along the process, he would be well qualified and a few phone calls later, he had an interview and a letter of recommendation from Dr. Stamford.

He was hired almost immediately and the director was relieved when John could start picking up hours and the odd shifts almost right away.

"Review this manual, it's standing orders based on location, which A&E to transport to, ACLS protocols, and radio procedures." John hoped the heaviness of the book was misleading and that it would be a quick, easy read. "Consent and refusal forms, along with how to re-order supplies are in this binder here." Another one was passed to him. "You'll be the lead medical provider, sometimes the only one. There'll be a driver slash technician during the day for peak volume times, night shift hours it's usually a driver only."

His training was trial by fire and short, but he quickly demonstrated competence and critical thinking skills. His first week alone kept him busy as they were dispatched for falls, chest pain, bumps, bruises, sprains, loneliness, strokes, and body retrieval. There had been a few memorable cardiac arrest calls within his first month of working there, one of which they could see through the window that the caller had collapsed and they'd needed to break down the door. The other medic had swiftly begun CPR, while John applied the defibrillator, delivered a shock, and the patient was conscious by the time they'd loaded him in the ambulance. A few slip-and-falls particularly in the tube stations, one of them a compound fracture of the arm, had been a bit chilling as he'd stabilised the protruding bone. The other crew members often requested to work with him given his good natured disposition, his calm direction, and his confidence under pressure. He was unruffleable.

++

A text message arrived to Sherlock's phone, adding on a patient newly discharged home a few days previously, who needed labs after a traumatic repair of a broken leg, blood stream infection, failure to thrive. Sherlock would get him last, at the end of the day given location. As such, he tried to call to confirm, unanswered, so he headed there anyway, locating the address easily, finding the small apartment and knocking loudly.

"Mobile lab!" He peered through the windowed door, the front window equally vacant, saw nothing. "Hello?"

He thought he heard a faint noise from within, a beckon perhaps, and Sherlock took that as -  _hopefully_ \- a come in. The door was unlocked, so he spoke again, a greeting, as he went inside. He could see immediately that all was not well.

The young man, eyes open, colour terribly gray, lay on the couch. There was a moan in response to his name, perhaps a blink and a half-hearted garbled word, and Sherlock, approached, found his hands cool when he touched. His mental status was terribly altered, so Sherlock wasted no time pulling his mobile from his pocket, dialing 999. While he was waiting for the call to be connected, he set his bag down and tapped the man on the shoulder, asking if he was all right. Sherlock could feel how warm - hot, radiating - the man's skin was centrally.

From his earpiece came a voice, "London 999, police, fire, or ambulance?"

"Ambulance." The man's eyes half opened, and his shallow breathing had returned. Panting, actually.

"What is your emergency?"

++

John's shift was nearly over, a couple of routine transports, a chest pain, and he was eagerly anticipating the end of his shift. The exhaustion, a busy week at school, demanding assignments due that he still had to sign up for computer lab time to complete. But for tonight, he was mostly just looking forward to a hot meal and going to bed. So when the call came in, he groaned as he summoned his partner, a brand new driver who was nice enough but not able yet to be of any real assistance at a scene. He scribbled down details of the nature of the call. They climbed in the truck, his mobile already pulling up the navigation service, plotting the quickest route based on current traffic.

"Recent surgery, difficult to wake up, apparently. Breathing, though, so." John shrugged. "Recent trauma, leg fracture, maybe early sepsis," John reiterated as the driver flicked on the lights. "Better go sirens too, I guess. Just in case."

"Remember I'm just hired to drive. I can't do any of the ... rest of it. The medical stuff." The drivers eyes were concerned.

"Should be pretty straightforward. Scoop and run, sounds like."

The wide-eyed driver looked skeptical. "Look, maybe ... "

"We'll be fine."

The traffic got out of their way as they headed quickly toward the destination. John considered the work he still had to do, that would wait for him, that would still be there. He hoped for a quick trip, an uneventful transport.

++

Sherlock tucked the mobile against his shoulder as he listened, uncovering the blankets from the already very warm patient. "Yes, he's breathing. Shallow, and his colour is ... pale. Almost gray. Conscious? sort of. No, not really answering. Moaned." They exchanged a few more very brief, minimal details, patient's name and age, precipitating factors.

"I'm sending an ambulance, they are already on the way. Please stay on the line."

"Obviously."

"You can raise the person's legs if there's a pillow nearby."

"You did hear me, that there is a fractured leg. The man is casted from thigh down."

"Elevating the legs promotes venous return, and is still safe to do." Sherlock glanced at him, could see that things were worsening, his colour becoming duskier, the breathing slower and more shallow, so he did find a spare pillow, an extra couch cushion, and did as instructed.

"All right. Is there an ETA on that ambulance yet?" The dispatcher told him that it had only been a minute, reiterating that they were on their way. "They'd better hurry, then. Because I don't like the way ..." Sherlock found himself staring at the patient's chest for reassurance, and when he could see chest rise and fall, he looked hard out the window. 

"Try calling his name again, make sure he's still breathing."

"There's chest rise, I'm not an idiot. His skin, though ..." He could see the irregularities in the man's breathing pattern, the more shallow depth. Off in the distance, Sherlock could finally, _thankfully_ , hear the approaching sound of a siren. "I hear them now, thank god." The relief he could feel was almost palpable. He could tell that things were about to get much, much worse.

The dispatcher was in the middle of another direction about remaining on the line when Sherlock disconnected the call. He listened acutely to the front of the flat as he could hear the ambulance brakes, the sounds of the doors opening, slamming, footsteps.

 _Hurry up, hurry up, what is taking so long?_ Sherlock opened the door, turned back to the patient, watching and waiting.

++

The ambulance pulled to the kerb, the driver remaining in the vehicle long long enough to report in to dispatch that they'd arrived. John had already grabbed his jump bag and a box of emergency supplies and strode to the door.

Sherlock glanced up as the medic approached the door, ready to enter. In the very short moment where their eyes met, that instant identification, the _I remember_ , and the shock of seeing a familiar face at an extremely unexpected setting, the urgent needs of the moment took precedence. John set his bags down close to the patient and pulled on gloves. "What's the story?" He'd barely glanced at Sherlock longer than necessary - all business, of course - and his eyes were fixed on the patient, watching, taking it in, the colour, muscle tone, responsiveness, the whole presentation.

"Fractured leg, just discharged after surgery, blood stream infection. I showed up to draw labs."

While Sherlock was speaking, John had begun his own targeted assessment, shaking, shouting, rapidly lifting the tee shirt of the man, and pulling out quick-look cardiac monitoring pads.

In those brief moments, Sherlock was also staring at the patient. "I don't think he's br--"

"Nope, he's not." John abandoned the monitor for the moment, and his fingers pressed into the side of the man's neck. "Has a pulse, still." A bag valve mask was briskly obtained from John's bag, the already attached oxygen tank spun open, and it was placed over the patient's mouth and nose, the reservoir squeezed. Twice. The man's skin colour changed from gray to whitish-blue before their eyes. John's fingers went back to the carotid pulse as they heard the driver arrive at the doorway, though neither specifically looked over, and in no time at all, John cursed under his breath and then declared, "No pulse."

Very quickly, John glanced over to find the driver frozen, a deer in the headlights, and just as quickly he tapped Sherlock's elbow with a curt directive. "Help me get him on the floor."

"What?" Sherlock breathed in response, though he moved closer as John was indicating.

"Yes, you," John said, sliding to the side of the patient and not waiting for either of the others in the room to help him, his knee coming up to support the man's torso. "Need a firm surface. Take his legs, just ease them down, but move fast." Between the two of them, they had him flat on the floor in seconds, and John issued another succinct order, loudly over his shoulder, "Call dispatch, now Leo." No response. "Leo, get the police here stat. Tell them full arrest."

John widened his kneeling stance, leaning over the patient, then, stacking his hands and began quickly, forcefully, delivering chest compressions, counting out loud.

Sherlock shot a brief glance over at the driver, who was standing stock still, riveted in place, eyes wide, mouth quiet. _"Leo?"_   John's sigh was then loud in the room as Sherlock looked at the medic then, really looked at him. Oh god, those eyes. Those unforgettable eyes, from his most recent A&E visit, that last and final time, before drastic measures were threatened and then taken.

Sherlock took barely a second to glance at the driver, who stood, still as a statue, and for the second time in ten minutes, Sherlock dialed 999. Rather than relay the message, though, he placed the phone on speaker again, allowing John to speak instead, at least at first. At the end of the terse requests and confirmation of address which Sherlock provided, John nodded when Sherlock's finger hovered over the end call button.

Sherlock watched the medic single-handedly do a round of compressions and ventilations, then moved to the patient's side. "I can do that," Sherlock said, "probably," glancing up to the space by the door where the driver had been. Leo had disappeared.

"Okay. On my signal." John squeezed the ambu bag again and shifted further toward his head so that there was more room. "Keep going, and count out loud," he said, connecting large monitoring pads on the patient's chest, one over ribs, the other up by the collarbone, and once it was connected he listened to Sherlock counting, and after his next two rescue breaths, he held his hands up, indicating that Sherlock should do nothing, yet, while he evaluated the monitor. "Vfib, going to shock it. Compressions, _go_."

Sherlock watched while John made some adjustments to the monitor, turning the dial on the defibrillator, and hitting charge. Instinctively understanding, Sherlock stopped with his movements and drew back away from the patient. "No," John said, "Until I say so, keep going." There was a slow whine, a tone starting low and escalating higher until finally a red light flashed and John said, "Stop, clear, hands off." He visually confirmed that neither he nor Sherlock were touching either the patient or anything that would conduct a current. A button depressed, the sound of the defibrillator firing, an arching of the patient off the floor, and immediately, John pointed to the chest so Sherlock began pumping again. "Hard and fast, at least one-third the depth of the chest, your rate is good."

They worked together, Sherlock delivering compressions while John maintained the airway. "The mask is leaking," Sherlock observed at one point while John bagged, and the next time he reached up to help John maintain the seal. There was less leak that time, and John smiled gratefully at him.

"Another set and we'll pause again, check the monitor, shock if needed."

This time, the energy seemed stronger, the patient's tetany afterward more pronounced, and John directed Sherlock to wait as the monitor showed some organised activity. "There's a pulse, good," John muttered, continuing to squeeze the ambu bag. Maintaining the tight seal remained a challenge, though, required John's hands and occasionally Sherlock's assistance to ventilate.

John glanced at the boxes of equipment. "Mobile phlebotomy, eh?" At Sherlock's nod, John raised a brow. "Until we get more hands, help arrives, I need to," _stay here_ and he hesitated, indicating the rescue breathing he was doing. "If I talk you through it, think you can get a line in?"

"Probably," Sherlock said, reaching in the direction John's eyes flicked toward for the IV start kit, fluids, and tubing. Without needing direction, Sherlock placed the tourniquet, his hands dexterous and efficient. With a quick assessment of the IV catheters, he picked and opened a large one, an eighteen.

"If you're sure." John almost chuckled, then frowned at his levity, turning a sharp eye back to the patient, watched chest rise and the lack of spontaneous movement. "He's not waking up at all yet."

Sherlock scrubbed at the man's antecubital, palpating carefully, then turned his fingers back to the IV cannula, identifying how the two pieces slid, the needle retracting. "Vein feels all right."

"I don't see it, you're sure?" John leaned over to look, squeezing the resuscitator bag. "You'll need to prime the line first," and Sherlock spiked an IV bag with John's cuing him, then turned back to the IV task. "Bevel up."

In answer, Sherlock uttered a quiet phrase to the patient out of habit - in this case, with the patient unresponsive the words were mostly unnecessary, "Big pinch here," and cannulated the vein. His finger slid the plastic catheter a little further as he manipulated the inner needle back out.

"Good. Guide it in further," John told him, quiet, quick. "Pull the needle back into the guard, till it clicks." Sherlock had accomplished that moments before the words even left John's mouth. "Okay." John glanced at the monitor again, ever assessing the patient. He bagged appropriately, a task that required most of his focus and both hands when he did. "Tourniquet," he said, and Sherlock nodded then reached over to release the tourniquet, "Work quickly, occlude the vein if you can with your fingers, grab the IV tubing, hold it out for me," and when Sherlock did, John pulled off the sterile cap. "Good, now quickly pull off the needle device, attach the tubing. It will twist on to tighten. It might ooze, that's okay." 

Sherlock had no sooner connected the tubing when John deftly placed a clear dressing over the site and opened the roller clamp. Sherlock held up the bag to let some of the fluids begin infusing when the monitor alarmed again. There was more chaos on the screen, and the patient's colour was again terribly ashen.

John felt for a pulse again, though it almost wasn't strictly necessary, and surprisingly with few words, Sherlock ended up helping with the chest compressions while John managed both defibrillator and airway.

"Where are the police?" John worried aloud as they worked. "I could use some ..." He huffed in the frustration of needing a better airway and some medications that needed to be given. "Think you could ...?" John bagged again, indicating that perhaps Sherlock could take over that for a short time.

"I think," Sherlock began, lifting his head and looking toward the door facing the street. "There." From outside, distantly from afar off, the two-toned siren of a police car was approaching. "There's your extra hands."

From the time the squad car screeched to a halt out front, lights reflecting oddly in the room, until the time there was actually an officer inside seemed a long time. "Take over chest compressions," John directed the first to approach. He was about to advise of the need for gloves, but the officer with the uniform sporting a Lestrade name badge was already pulling them from his pockets. "Hold that IV up, gentle pressure to keep it running," he said to Sherlock, who not only backed out of the way, but did as he was told.

Once there were more people to help, more actually happened. More CPR, medications, all with John directing their efforts, and Sherlock continued to function as a portable IV pole for a little until the patient had been shocked into a perfusing rhythm and antiarrhythmic medications had been given.

"All right," John mused, still on his knees and managing the airway. "Need the gurney from the ambulance, and I'm intubating before transport."

One of the officers volunteered to go back out to the kerb to secure the stretcher, and the other gestured to the IV bag that Sherlock was holding, who narrowed an eye at being dismissed but handed the fluids and the task over.

John rearranged some equipment, and told Sherlock, "I'll need help here in a moment anyway."  Sherlock watched John assemble and prepare the tube in his hand, bending it slightly. After bagging a few times in a row to hyperoxygenate, he slid intubation equipment into the mouth of the man, his wrist tight and the man's jaw oddly angled as he worked. "Give me your hand, cricoid pressure right," and Sherlock did exactly as John asked, pressing lightly with his fingers under John's direction, into the notch at the man's neck, "right here!" over the man's adams apple while John then gave a small, victorious cry, slid the breathing tube in. "Good, let go, thanks." He pointed at a package, something he needed and couldn't reach, and Sherlock got it for him, opened it, and handed it over.

"His colour's better," Sherlock observed as the ambulance stretcher was brought in.

"Yes. Thank god." John knelt up straight then, still on his knees on the floor, but glanced at one of the officers and took note of the fact that Leo was not with them. "So my driver got a little ..."

"Barmy," Sherlock muttered. "Wonky."

"Overwhelmed," John clarified, though he didn't disagree. "Was he all right out there?"

The officer shrugged, gave a half-hearted nod, but didn't elaborate.

John directed the easing of the patient onto a slide board and then onto the wheeled gurney, and eventually out of the man's flat. The officers accompanied them to assist with getting into the vehicle. From the back of the ambulance, John connected the oxygen tubing to the vehicle's flowmeter and clamped the stretcher in place. Over his shoulder, he spoke with Leo, who was seated behind the wheel but turned sideways to see into the back. Sherlock's vantage point from the open back door, he could see them both. John asked, pointedly and direct. "You okay to drive?"

"I am. I don't know ... I'm sorry, this isn't ..." he said, but he did seem to be at least functional again. "Yes."

The policemen got another call almost immediately and left the scene with a helpless shrug at John, who shrugged back. No choice, apparently, they all know. With a wry smile, John shook his head with a pointed glance at Sherlock. "You want to ride along?"

"I probably shouldn't," Sherlock hedged.

"It's a quick trip, and I could use the extra hands in back with me, just in case."

"I'll grab my bag, and then ... yes, all right."

They'd buckled in, John nearer the patient, Sherlock riding backwards in the jump seat, and John continued to ventilate the patient for the duration of the ride, which left very little time to do much else on the otherwise short and uneventful trip. The monitor stayed secure, the IV infusing, and John radioed ahead to the A&E, giving a brief report and advising them of his expected arrival time. The trip was quick this time of night, given the emergent nature of the transport and the street-clearing siren, had them shortly pulling into the admittance area of the A&E. John took a few moments to meet Sherlock's eyes, as he bagged the patient intermittently.

"Thank you for your help back there. All of it, CPR, the line, the second pair of hands." John smiled a bit then, glancing at the patient quickly, assessing pointedly before looking back at Sherlock. "Well done. Seems like you might've found something better to occupy your time with, since that last time I last saw you?"

Before Sherlock could come up with any kind of comeback, John grinned at him, breathed another thanks, and disappeared with the patient and the staff that had rushed out to help.

++ 

John finalised his paperwork, the patient in good hands and relatively stable, being admitted under supervision of more advanced care at the hospital. He glanced about for his driver, Leo, who'd had quite the rough night, and whom John hadn't seen since he delivered the patient through to the A&E staff.  

"I think he's parked over there. Looked a little green about the gills last I saw," the security officer spoke to John as he poked his head out the A&E doors, clearly and pointedly looking for the ambulance. Leo sat behind the wheel, calmly, and when John tapped on the window, he didn't immediately look over. John was fairly certain their conversation, eventually, wasn't going to be comfortable for Leo particularly. He glanced around, not specifically looking to take the driver to task for how the rescue unfolded, when something near the building caught his eye.

Someone, actually.

Leaning against the wall of the building, a supply bag by his feet, the faint red glow of a cigarette and surrounded by an even fainter fog of exhaled smoke, was Sherlock.

John tapped on the window of the ambulance to at least address Leo. "I'll be right back," and headed over to where Sherlock was standing. "You all right?" John asked him, peering intently at his face and wondering if he was upset for any reason.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Probably not every day as a mobile phlebotomist you participate in a resuscitation?"

"I suppose not."

"You're not upset?"

"Not especially." Sherlock fussed at the cigarette again, his nonchalance particularly intentional, John thought. "Should I be upset about it?" His tone, his demeanor, bordered on slightly challenging, as if he was goading at John. He lifted his chin toward the ambulance. "Seems one person upset should be enough for you."

"Look, no need to ..." John sighed. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay. Some people get very rattled by things like that, and I thought I'd ask." A half-hearted shrug was followed by Sherlock looking more intently at John. "Well, if you're all right, I have some end-of-shift paperwork to do. Make sure things are restocked."

"And you've not eaten much today, you have a paper to write, and you're exhausted."

"How can you possibly," John began, but then self-corrected, not particularly minding that Sherlock had known somehow. "Well, yes,"  John began, "I should probably grab a bite of dinner, in case you wanted to join me, after my shift ends?" At Sherlock's mildly surprised expression, he wondered then about the propriety, or impropriety of having asked him that question. "I didn't mean, I was only ... just dinner."

"I know." Sherlock sighed, looked away, took another drag off his cigarette, directed a thin line of exhaled smoke opposite from John. "I'm not usually that hungry, so..." There was a brief pause, and neither seemed too anxious to part ways just yet.

"He was still doing okay," John offered, his head jerking toward the depths of the ward. "Thankfully."

"Good to hear. Because he looked bloody awful earlier."

John smirked at Sherlock's shudder that went along with his words, and he thought perhaps more of an update wouldn't be ill received. "They treated him for possible pain med reaction, but ..."

"He didn't overdose on his pain meds."

"Actually, he could have, and ..."

"He didn't take any."

"I thought he was not talking when you got there."

"He wasn't speaking, correct. But he didn't overdose."

John could feel his jaws clench in annoyance at the rather arrogant statement, the pompous tone. "And you know this how?"

"He hadn't even filled them. His paper prescriptions were still sitting on his little table by the door. And he was febrile."

"Differential diagnosis includes infection, so perhaps. Septic shock most likely," John conceded, "although they won't --"

"Certainly," Sherlock smirked then, took a final pull on the cigarette, then ground it out and dropped it in the ash receptacle. "His antibiotic hadn't been filled either."

"Apparently you've also learned to pay a great deal of attention as well." Sherlock continued to look back at John, curious as to the rest of whatever he might finish that sentence. "Since I saw you last anyway."

"I pay attention plenty, any time I choose. Certainly enough to see that you also have your driver to deal with."

"Yes."

"He needs to resign."

"Probably."

"Good riddance."

Though he agreed, John tactfully kept quiet about that. "You're also observant enough to know to call 999 to get an ambulance there in time. Which by the way, was probably the only reason he's alive now." John's words rang true and he smiled a bit then at Sherlock's somewhat raw and genuine reaction to his comment. "Plus, help at the scene. To get an IV line in ..."

_"Expertly in."_

"... a hypotensive patient with profound illness." John ignored the arrogant interruption. "It was a good stick." Sherlock tipped his head slightly at the compliment, acknowledging it, an unwitting smile of his own. For a brief moment, the smile gave John a bit of a strange sensation in his gut, a visceral reaction to the overall reaction to something as simple as a compliment. _And a bloody nice smile, too,_ he considered before forcing his mind back to the present. "I should be getting going. You sure you don't want to ...?"

"No thanks."

"Suit yourself," John said, vaguely disappointed. "And you should think about quitting." He gestured at the smoker's pole.

"I already quit the harder stuff." There was a small smile about him, a sense of accomplishment. "One thing at a time."

"Okay, I get it." John's smile was more genuine then. "Congrats on that. I mean it."

Another, smaller smile, but honestly given and acknowledged.

"It's good to see you. Maybe we'll meet again someday."

"Doubtful, I suppose." Sherlock spoke with a degree of veiled knowledge as he scrutinised John carefully. "I mean, you'll likely end up in a specialty rotation. Cardiology perhaps. Maybe ..., oh, right. Surgery." He studied John, taking in his expression, eye reaction. "More likely surgery. So I can't really see our paths will cross again."

"I don't know, keep up with the phlebotomy and ..."

He made a denigrating puff of air. "This is temporary. And I think it's highly likely you'll end up enlisting before settling back at a hospital. Bit of an army stint perhaps."

"How could you ...?"

"Your heirloom pen in your jacket pocket. Very worn, military insignia, family memento. But you use it for daily work, so practicality matters. Med school, service profession, therefore, military tour." Sherlock shrugged, enjoying the shocked look about John. "But be careful."

"That's amazing," he said quietly. "Because yes, I have been thinking --"

"I'm thinking," Sherlock interrupted, with a quick chuckle as he glanced across the car park and lifted his chin in that direction, "that if you don't hurry along, you'll be walking back to the ambulance station."

Indeed, Leo had started the ambulance engine and impatiently was beginning to crawl out of the parking bay. "Yeah, gotta run, you're right." He took Sherlock's arm, hoping to convey the sincerity of his upcoming words. "Thanks again. You have a real ... gift. I trust you'll find someplace quite special in which to use it soon."

And with that, he lumbered off quickly to the ambulance, jumped in, and waved as he and Leo drove off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death penalty by lethal injection is apparently not done in Europe.
> 
> The seldinger technique is a vascular access procedure in which a vessel is accessed with an introducer needle, guide wire, and then a larger access device or catheter.
> 
> Managing the early minutes of a cardiac arrest with only one trained rescuer is particularly challenging. I tried not to make the details of the arrest too boggy to manage, but I think they managed a bit of teamwork in spite of it.
> 
> ++
> 
> Chapter 3 is calling. Please let me know (gently) if there are some glaring errors, typos, or something that needs to be a bit clearer. RL is kicking my tail these days - I had no intention of this much time passing between these two chapters. Making no promises about the 3rd except that it will have the payoff for hanging in there!


	3. Third Time's a Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another meeting, a chance encounter or two. Not sure how charming either of them are at first!
> 
> Is the third time ... _charming?_

John cursed the cane, his limp, his shoulder, Harry, and his bloody obnoxious bedsit. Again.

He cursed how much he had loved surgery, the thrill of the action, the skill and the power that had given him such fulfillment. He missed the camaraderie of his unit, of being so needed, of being _useful_. A dejected sigh sounded loud in the room, his new normal. God, he hated this with every cell of his being.

The gun called him, but it was quieter than the alcohol in his cabinet, most of the time anyway. Both were quieter than the irksome ringing of his mobile, and he could feel his teeth grit as he considered not answering it. The caller ID, however, changed his mind, at least about picking up the call.

Mike Stamford. Ah, Mike. Trusted friend, mentor, dependable. Non-judgmental.

Calling, though. A curiosity.

With a consideration for employment, not quite a job offer. The puzzled expression on John's face lingered long after the call ended.

++

"So you're telling me I would be in a supervisory role in the A&E, working with the doctors there and coordinating the admissions?"

"New role. Something between a Hospitalist and an Attending."

"Who else am I overseeing?"

"A small team of nurses, techs, support staff. Admissions department to handle the perpetual bed flow issues. Case management from time to time. Bringing in those more urgent consults on the patients who need them while they're awaiting bed assignment. Stabilise them before they disappear into the shuffle of going to the floor and all the delays of an admission. You remember how it was?"

Nodding introspectively, John could feel the frown starting, and he turned the idea on its side as he considered it. Certainly, he knew, it was a foot in the door, as the position was provisional only. Probationary. If it worked, they'd keep it. If not, well, he knew it would be thanks anyway, but don't let the door hit you.

"Statistically, we've seen some patients have a change in status, get hypotensive and symptomatic during that time, and you would be in a small transitional unit, able to get right on top of many of these problems." The VP of medical staff, who was in charge of hiring physicians narrowed his eye a bit, wondering at John's hesitation. His reticence. "It could be a position in progress. Mike said you have always been able to think on your feet. So try it out, adapt. Reduce delays in treating problems, better outcomes, address length of stay."

"What's the time frame again, the proposed pilot study?"

"Six weeks."

He sighed quietly, trying to keep it hidden, thinking that, perhaps, it would give him enough purpose to then consider something else if he hated it. "All right," his voice sounded a little flat to his own ears. "I can give you six weeks."

A small glimmer of hope began, the faintest strike of a match, the lighting of a candle in a breeze that threatened to blow it out. It was tenuous, but it was something. In his mind, he cupped his hands protectively around the flickering ember and nurtured the tender beginnings of the flame of hope.

++

The first weeks, it seemed John no sooner tidied up one patient when another took that one's place, and sometimes in the course of his shift he turned over ten or twelve patients in only a few hours. He picked up on a new heart murmur, and an echo ended up being the deciding point of going for emergent, open heart surgery. There was an acute abdomen, sudden rigidity, that ended up needing hypercoagulatory reversal before getting blood product transfusions and a trip to the interventional radiology suite for coiling. Vomiting, pain, a stroke, a seizure, agitation related to alcoholism, a few combative patients he helped place in leather restraints - a wide variety of unpredictability. A few times, he was able to bring a chaplain or a caregiver to the patient for company and comfort before it was too late. He facilitated better patient care, made contact with consultants, turned the heat up when delays were looming, picked up the phone frequently to impress someone with the urgency of what they needed to do. And far more than all of that.

Administration had been monitoring the length of time from admission order to bed assignment to actual placement, and already John's presence and management had decreased this interval profoundly. The efficiency of patient flow, treatment, satisfaction, and positive staff feedback had gathered attention and approval already.

Almost a month in, had John the time to think about it, his outlook was improved. A rare drink, very rare, and he hadn't thought about his firearm for a long time. One early evening, during another busy shift, John cared for a moderately intoxicated patient with chest pain, positive enzymes, who was awaiting a bed. John'd added a toxicology screen to his labwork, and actual illegal substances had been found in his belongings. Facility policy demanded police notification, and the patient continued to complain that the drugs weren't his, that it had been planted on him.

Rather than get drawn into a conversation - debate turned argument - that John had neither time nor interest in, he informed the man that he could explain it all to the police when they arrived, and this only served to escalate things. Given the agitation, the yelling, the disturbance in the department, they'd placed him in a room with sliding glass doors to try to alleviate the other patients' complaints.

"The police are coming, you can tell them all about it," he said coolly. Again. And again. At times, the man was complacent; other times he was giving all the staff a hard time, and John alternated his duties to help calm the man down, reassure him, make sure he wasn't doing injury to himself or threatening those in earshot. "The police can get this all sorted."

He hadn't heard the door of the patient room slide open, and was slightly startled when a baritone voice behind him quipped, "No they can't. But I can."

The voice, John realised immediately, was vaguely familiar. Turning, John was face to face again with rather memorable features. His eyes clapped onto his former patient, and also that of former mobile phlebotomist, Sherlock Holmes. He stood taller than John remembered, dark lush curls somewhat windblown from whatever the day had already held. Bright eyes positively glowed back at him, sparkling and clear. The colour, somewhere between green and blue, a hint of steel, the shining ripple of zest and life. He wore a long, wool coat that just ... suited him, complimented him - collar popped, buttons open, the tailored fit flaring out and wafting about his legs as he'd strode into the room. Dress shirt, neck open, trim trousers, shoes and belt of high quality. He was professionally put together with an air of informal style.

But what caught most of John's attention was the confidence. The posture of a self-assured man who was not only in control but in charge. His eyes were bright and sharp, his mind clearly at the top of his game. The smile ranged from calculating to manipulative, one side of his mouth a bit broader than the other when he was genuine.

"Dr. Watson," Sherlock said, his head tilting just a little in formal acknowledgement and his heels coming together as he stood, properly, tall. He worked his leather gloves from his fingers as he continued, "How very nice to see you again." His voice, smooth, honeyed, seemingly sincere. Sherlock tucked the gloves in his pocket, considering the man on the bed with laser focus. "So, are you working in tandem with my friend Billy from over on the south side, or are you one of the dealers from that abandoned warehouse north of town?" The patient blinked in surprise. "The drug den on Front Street. I can smell the stale factory smell on you."

"I'm not --"

"You are, and if you don't tell me, you're at risk to be in quite a bit more trouble than you already are." With a careful hand, he picked up the man's arm, turned him at the wrist to evaluate his fingernails, then caught sight of the man's shoes left on the floor from where he'd taken them off. Scooping one of them up, he inspected the sole. "Looks to me like you should start talking. Unless you want me to suss out the quality of the substances the officers don't know about yet and that Dr. Watson here hasn't tested you for." Both John and the patient were momentarily speechless. "I can tell quite a bit from the wear pattern on your trainers and the locations you've been based on what's stuck in the tread."

John had run indeed all the toxicology screens that were indicated, but listened intently and just somehow knew he was intended to play along when his gaze caught Sherlock's and lingered. The request was fairly plain.

"So, toxicology?" Sherlock asked, his chin lifting in John's direction.

"Oh," John began. "Of course, we ran some preliminary screens. I suppose I could add the full drug abuse panel, everything, and save you the trouble, both of you." To the patient, whose mouth was pressed in a firm line, he continued, "Save you the trouble of speaking."

”Of lying. Because the tests don’t lie.” Sherlock raised a brow in challenge, the moment tense and charged as they waited.

For a few moments, the patient crossed his arms, stubbornly silent.

Sherlock seemed to grow disinterested then, and turned to John with a disappointed, resigned shrug. "Might as well, then. Shame that this'll violate your parole and affect your children's weekly visitation schedule."

John could have chuckled at the play of emotion - disbelief, shock, then worry - and opted to turn up the heat. "I don't even think we need new blood samples, I can just run it off the bloodwork we already drew."

"Pity," Sherlock said, allowing only the side of his mouth facing away from the patient to draw up in controlled mirth. "Nice veins, someone could have really enjoyed that."

"I'll just go enter those orders then," John said, businesslike himself as he took a few steps to the door. "Let me know if he acts up or if you need help."

"No, wait," the patient breathed before John had even put his hand on the doorknob. "I'll ... I mean, I might..."

Sherlock gesticulated widely, then, directing with no small amount of drama. "Come back in ten minutes, then. Dr. Watson. No sooner, even if there's some shrieking involved. What information I need, and the means I employ in order to get it, should leave no marks and not cause too much discomfort." He toyed with the man's hand again, considering the fingernail and the webbing between thumb and palm. "Usually the right amount of pressure and electricity right in here is enough, and though it can ..."

 _What?_   John paused, mind whirling. "No. I'll not be having you ..." John said quiet, low. "What are you saying?" Sherlock's gaze on the patient seemed somewhere between threatening and eager, and although John didn't think Sherlock meant harm, he was certainly implying it.

Sherlock's faint mumble was for John's hearing only. "Oh please." The men, standing, exchanged a look, John pensive, Sherlock cocky. "I believe a few questions should cause no harm at all. If you'll excuse us, then, Dr. Watson."

From out at the desk, there was the noise of trouble brewing in one of the other rooms, raised voices, an urgent summons for assistance, and John used that as the impetus to carry him from the room. "I'll be not far away." This was a caution to them both. "I'll be back in a few minutes then."

++

When John did return, it was beyond the few minutes he'd been hoping for, to find Sherlock tapping an impatient foot and the patient looking reserved, quiet. "Your room still isn't ready yet, but we're working on it." There was a glare from Sherlock at those words, and John stepped a little closer to see if there seemed to be a problem. "What's going on here? Are you feeling all right?" Blinking and silence in response. "Did the chest pain return?"

The patient was shaking his head when Sherlock spoke. "Just discharge him then. He's needed ... elsewhere anyway." John looked at him curiously, surprised at the audacity of the statement.

"He's being admitted." Three sets of eyes made brief contact, glances exchanged with each other, and John grinned then, "As in, he needs to stay."

"No, not really. His testimony, his statements, will only be useful if they're made in a timely manner, and ..." John almost chuckled, almost at the ridiculous statements, and Sherlock stood taller in response, trying to make his case. "There's a line-up of suspects, you see, that he needs --"

John was already shaking his head, incredulous. "Do I need to say 'no' a little more clearly? That's not how this works."

"John, be reasonable ..."

He frowned, serious. "It's Dr. Watson." John could count on one hand the number of times he'd ever pulled rank or title, and the glare that came with it certainly conveyed his annoyance at Sherlock overstepping. "He is not medically cleared."

"He can sign out against medical advice."

To the patient, John offered what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, his hands indicating that he should stay and relax. "No, you're fine here." The smile he'd given the patient faded to austere as he then looked over at Sherlock. John could feel the tension begin at the back of his neck, and through clenched teeth, he said, "I'll see you in the hallway then." When Sherlock didn't seem as if he was going to budge, did not give any indication that he was going to follow, John tapped at his upper arm with a pointed finger. _"Now."_

Sherlock shrugged as if John were being ridiculous, yet he had no sooner crossed in front of John who was holding the door and waiting that he spun to face John. With a hand on his hip, indignant, he towered over the doctor. "I don't think you understand the urgency here, that --"

"Stop it right there. I understand plenty, but I'm not sure that _you_ do." John raised an eyebrow, patient and unrushed, his body language every bit of the army officer he had become and that was part and parcel of him, just under the surface. "Where - _exactly_ \- are we?" The question was rhetorical, and Sherlock's eye narrowed at being challenged. "And who do you think you are, coming in here and telling me, demanding ..." and John let the chuckle squeak out again, "bloody ... anything?"

Sherlock was unfazed. "You're implying that the non-existent medical situation here trumps the necessity of this man bringing down one of the largest drug dealers in London?"

"Nope," John said, his voice quiet and severe, powerful in the understated delivery. "I'm not implying anything. I'm full stop stating it. And the validity, the severity, of the medical situation cannot yet be determined."

The shape of Sherlock's jaw changed again as he clenched his teeth and his eyes narrowed in displeasure.

"He stays." John shrugged, knowing he had miles to go, more work to do. "Now if you'll excuse me ..."

There was a muttering, Sherlock shaking his head in something like disgust. One of the words sounded like 'idiot' and John's aggravation began to peak again.

"Beg pardon?"

"Tell me, _doctor_ , you seem to be missing something.” John patted first for his wallet, his mobile, and glanced over, puzzled, at Sherlock who was looking on with displeasure. He hissed, “Where is your cane?"

John immediately could feel a twinge in his leg, his shoulder, as he realised that his cane had remained inside the man's room. And, it had been there since the first encounter. Sherlock ducked inside again to return with the item in his grip, and then used it to tap lightly, arrogantly, at John's chest as he handed it across. "You don't need it." Silently, John's fingers tightened around the handle, and he pondered his dependence on the device. And then pondered using it to rap Sherlock smartly on the head. Sherlock's smile, a sinister turned quasi-friendly one, blazed. "You're welcome."

John's eyes were locked onto Sherlock's, and though he kept his mouth tight-lipped, his eyes vacillated somewhere between amusement and gratitude.

"Until next time, then," Sherlock vowed quietly and low. With a wink, he turned on his heel and left, striding down the hall with purpose and the hustle of the unit drew John back into the swells of activity.

++

John leaned against the door jamb of Mike Stamford’s office, chuckling about one of the stories his friend, mentor, and colleague always seemed to have at the ready, this one about a med students reaction to yet another foreign body lodged somewhere it shouldn't have been. He and John had kept in touch as John transitioned from temp locum admitting physician to a semi permanent role and a solid, dependable provider in the A&E ward. It was a casual, social, informal visit, as he'd done a few times in the past, was meant to be a quick hello before his shift began.

Mike's landline rang, and he cast a quick glance at the caller ID with every intention of letting the caller leave a message. But seeing who the caller was, he exhaled and hung his head a bit, indicating John should stay. ”Need to get this. Trouble in the pathology lab. Perpetually, it seems." He connected the call and spoke into the handset. "Good afternoon, Dr. Hooper."

Of course, John could only hear one side of the conversation, but from what he could piece together, it seemed that items were missing with increasing frequency from Dr. Hooper's lab, storeroom, and more disturbingly, from the refrigerator where body parts and tissue samples were kept. Mike kept assuring her that the cameras they'd requested should be installed within the week and they would then know what was happening. The sigh Mike emitted near the end of the call was one of resignation. "Okay," Mike was reluctantly saying. "I'll be right there." John could still hear the woman fussing as he disconnected the call. "Duty calls. Want to come along?"

John grimaced with a sympathetic smile none-the-less, knowing he had but a few minutes until his shift would begin. "Think not. She doesn't sound too happy." Shrugging into his jacket, he stood to follow Mike out of his office. "But A&E's that way, so I guess I'm headed that direction anyway."

For the short walk from Mike's office toward the lab in question, John was filled in on the details of these surprising, mysterious, unexplainable distractions and then the seemingly unrelated and unconnected disappearances of a wide variety of lab equipment and samples. He was mid-tirade on how expensive these shortages were becoming when John happened to notice someone.

Sherlock. Walking toward them, his long, elegant coat wrapped tightly around him and his entire arm pressed in snugly against his body. There was a charged moment as Sherlock stared back, his expression deliberate and carefully - almost too intentionally - blank as he took in the person John was walking with. A small, mischievous twinkle of his eye sparkled back at John as Mike, completely oblivious, was lamenting at the clever and bold audacity of whomever their lab thief was.

And John knew, the expression, the charisma, the almost guilty, suppressed non-smile on Sherlock Holmes' face, that Mike's lab thief had just walked by with stolen goods, not quite in plain sight.

He would later wonder, during a rare lull in the typically hectic pace of his A&E shift, why he didn't speak up about it at the time.

++

The same bulletin board that had linked John up with his med school part time job as ambulance medic was for more than simply jobs. Connections were posted regarding textbooks for sale, tutoring help, items wanted, ride-sharing, and housing requests or availabilities. John had finally grown tired of the commute between his bed-sit and what ended up being a rather nice position there at the hospital, and now that there was a steady income along with his army pension, he was thinking perhaps a flatmate and a place more in central London would be attainable. At Mike's suggestion, he was just about to tack up his listing, his request, when he found another one, similar, already there.

 **Flatmate wanted. Central London location above coffee shop. Must be fairly tolerant and overlook confrontational rudeness. Military experience preferred**. It was followed by a phone number.

John couldn't stop the chuckle, the actual snort of laughter at the posting. As if anyone would agree to that.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

Abruptly, John turned around to find amused eyes laughing back at him. "What?"

"And sometimes I don't talk for days on end." At John's questioning glance and gesture, Sherlock shrugged. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"And you not talking doesn't sound particularly like a negative to me, actually."

Sherlock stared back, from mere inches away, invading his personal space. There was chemistry, a smile, an aura, and a dare about him. John didn't budge, didn't fuss nor try to move away despite being close enough to feel the heat radiating from the man.

Barely needing to look, Sherlock stretched out his arm to remove the unusual flatshare request, and with a flick of his elegant fingers, he stared at John, longer than necessary. Long enough for both of them to realise and begin to admit that something was drawing them, kept putting them in the same sphere. 

Sherlock's voice was only slightly gravelly as he asked, "Interested?"

John cleared his own throat, his body responding on some level to the appeal, the magnetism of the man next to him. "Interested," he echoed, an eyebrow raising. _In more than just sharing the flat, apparently._ "Yes. You?"

"Oh, yes." The depth and colour of Sherlock's eyes had seemed bright earlier, and now up close, this intense, they were steely green.

"Sounds ... passable." John reached out and took Sherlock's posted flat advert, smiling as the two postings ended up in his hand. "Sure, why not."

++

"Of course we'll be needing two," John advised their well-meaning landlady as she stood in their kitchen, having just set down a plate of freshly baked biscuits.

Sherlock snorted in agreement. "Because I might deign to share the bed --"

 _"Sherlock!"_   John snapped, quiet, a hushed whisper of caution as he tried to spare their landlady from whatever personal details Sherlock was about to blurt out.

"-- but I'm not sharing the closet or a dresser."

John shrugged helplessly at the landlady that he already felt such warmth from - and toward for that matter. "See?" John chuckled. "Wouldn't want to make room for even a few items of my clothing, now, would we?"

Mrs. Hudson make a tsk-ing sound and shook her head. "Now, Sherlock."

"I'm not messing up my sock index, even for someone with the remarkable skills of Dr. Watson --"

And John's eyes grew wide as he worried about what Sherlock might finish that sentence with, but he relaxed as Sherlock went on.

"-- for fetching tea."

"Gee, thanks," muttered John.

"More importantly," Sherlock continued, on a roll as he plucked with distaste at John's sleeve, "how horrid it would be if any of these mass-produced synthetic fabrics somehow managed to share space, let alone possibly _touch_ my wardrobe." John brushed harshly at Sherlock's fingers to get them off his jumper, made a face at his insults. "Unacceptable."

John raised a brow as Mrs. Hudson whispered a warning for Sherlock to be kind. "Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Hudson, he doesn't mean it."

"Of course I do," Sherlock declared, giving another shudder as he considered John's apparel.

John rose quickly to his feet, his arms reaching quickly out to capture Sherlock in an animated, full-bodied embrace, brushing his jumper up against Sherlock in a blatant effort to do exactly what Sherlock had fussed about, touching as much of Sherlock with his clothing as possible.

All three adults were still chuckling when Mrs. Hudson bade the men a good day and left them to sort themselves out. Judging from the sounds she could hear later, through the rather thin floors of their building, there was chasing, catching, loud laughter, squeaking bedsprings, and what must have been a very mutually satisfying encounter in their newly co-inhabited flat. There was more laughter and the sound of footsteps in the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing, when she finished up her online shopping after reading reviews of the best and most comfortable noise-canceling headphones. The checkout process was almost complete when there was more scuffling upstairs and the sound of furniture squeaking rhythmically across the floor. With a quick finger, she selected express, next day delivery, and began to consider an overnight visit to her sister's - anywhere, actually - until her shipment arrived the following day.

++

John's day off was a relaxing lie-in, a bottomless mug of his favourite tea, a few hours with a mindless crime novel, a walk to do some shopping for dinner ingredients, which were all assembled and awaiting Sherlock to return following some vague afternoon activities akin to research and crime scene investigation. Footsteps coming up the stairs, heavy tread, solid, a familiar cadence as Sherlock returned to interrupt his book. John got up to open the door, knowing that Sherlock's hands were often full, and as he began to swing the door inward, his mobile rang.

Molly Hooper. Again.

_Uh oh._

John showed the screen's caller ID to Sherlock as he answered it. "Oh hey, Molly, how are you?" He stared at Sherlock, knowing the gist and purpose of the call without even having to ask, and shook his head at whatever his flatmate had done, absconded with, or otherwise made a nuisance of himself. The calls were becoming a regular occurrence.

He pulled the mobile away from his ear as it was immediately filled with a loud torrent of unhappy pathologist, some vehement accusations, and rapid-fire speech requesting that he have Sherlock call her the moment John saw him, whenever he returned home, advising John that Sherlock had some explaining to do.

"Oh, no, he was here until just a bit ago," John said, pinching the mobile between his chin and shoulder leaving his hands free for dragging Sherlock fully into the room. "He was right here in the sitting room with me just moments ago, but," John continued, shoving Sherlock back through the doorway, "you just missed him. He _just now stepped_ out, and I don't think he told me where he was going." Technically, John had not lied about his flatmate's location or activities. She wasn't finished, but John interrupted, "I know, I hear you, I understand. I'll see that he knows you want to talk to him." He intentionally did not promise that he would make sure Sherlock phoned. Or anything else.

She was only mildly placated when John bade her farewell, though she was still talking when he disconnected the call.

Mobile pocketed, he scowled slightly at Sherlock as he considered that he held a bag that was likely indeed full of mis-appropriated lab equipment or specimens, as Molly had said. "You mad berk."

The grin was instant, and heartfelt. "Yes, but wait until you see what I got!" His free hand clutched at the back of John's head as he re-entered the flat, pressing his warm lips firmly against John's. Whatever he'd brought home had made him happy and given him extra energy, John realised, as the kiss deepened, their faces slotting, lips opening, admitting, tasting. It ended with a bit of a promise and an expectation, though, as he set down the bag and they closed the door behind him.

"It'll keep?" John said, low and serious, eyeing the bag that Sherlock set down.

"Couple of hours, yes." Both of them looked at the bag that seemed to breathe a puff of mist at them. John's eyes widened and he cleared his throat. Sherlock chuckled at his reaction, his expression. "Would think you'd be used to this by now." He wrapped his arms easily, comfortably around John's waist, drawing them closer, pressing their lower halves together. "Thanks for running interference -"

"Again." John chuckled. "Interference _again_."

"Yes, _again_ , with Molly." They shared another easy, comfortable familiar kiss, that edgy moment where the choice would be made to continue, passion ignited, or draw apart temporarily. John took a look at the bag again, where another thin line came from the top of it, a vapour. Sherlock saw and sought to reassure him. "Dry ice. It'll be fine."

Speculating, John tapped at the bag with his toe.

"Don't! You'll wake them up!"

"What?!" John breathed, his foot suspended in the air and alarm creeping into his voice.

"Kidding." Sherlock's arms tightened, his knees bending as he lowered his face into the warm curve of John's neck, drawing at them as if it was time to head down the hall to the bedroom.

"Sherlock," John warned.

"I'm definitely kidding."

The men had made it to the bedroom, fortunately, before the contents within the bag shifted and settled, harmless. John would definitely have thought, had he been there to hear it, that it sounded like something within the bag potentially scratching to get out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual ending left to the imagination, with a little non-linear plot going on. It was completely intentional!
> 
> ++
> 
> So just for the point of, no, I didn't adhere to the chapter title, I suppose if we're counting, the third meeting was a bit confrontational, the fourth meeting (in the hallway, Sherlock with hot lab supplies under his Belstaff) was non-conversational, and the fifth meeting was implied, outside of the writing. Oh well. I'm still waiting for the fanfic police from an infraction on the Advent fic - so far so good. (Wait, is that a siren I hear!?)
> 
> Thanks for reading along. Other pieces are calling and time is in such short supply! Please let me know gently if there are blatant errors, typos, or things that need to be cleared up. There's another high angst medical one brewing, festering, and rattling around in my mind ... _Make it stop!_


End file.
